


Treehouse

by DozingNeko



Series: Johnlock "Daily" Prompts [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Bullied Sherlock, Gen, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Mentioned Baby Sherlock, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 09:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14305602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DozingNeko/pseuds/DozingNeko
Summary: At least they escaped the knowing eyes of Mummy Holmes.





	Treehouse

“Sherlock, dinner will be ready in a few minutes.” John tried to dissuade him, though he had little inclinations to return to the Holmes home. As fate would have it, Mummy Holmes was just as perceptive as her boys, but doubly merciless, commenting on John's hardly noticeable weight gain, the laugh lines, the yellowing of his teeth signifying an increased coffee consumption. 

Her sons had tilted their heads and hummed thoughtfully, as if to say,  _ well done, mother. I hadn't thought of that.  _ John had smiled, closed lipped, and laughed when Father Holmes apologised on her behalf. 

Subjected to several long hours of giggling about the history of Sherlock and Mycroft, complete with pictures that miraculously survived the years, considering it's incriminatingly human contents, Sherlock finally made the excuse of showing John the grounds and dragged him outside. 

“It's cold as balls. Listen, I won't ask for any more stories or anything. Though you trying to tame a whole hive of bees,”

“John.” Sherlock glared backwards at him. 

John grinned. “Come on, or your mum will have our arses.” He encouraged. 

Despite a flush on his pale face, Sherlock shook his head. “I have something to show you.” He argued simply, striding into a little thicket. 

John followed dutifully. “Oh God, it's not a body, is it?”

“Like I'd trust _ you _ with the location of a corpse.” Sherlock teased, squinting through the thick of the trees before uttering a quiet,  _ “ah.” _

Beaming like a child, Sherlock led him to a tree. It was rather thick around the trunk, with a heavy web of roots to hold it up. Carved into the bark in infuriatingly lovely calligraphy was  _ WH. _

John tilted his head. “What is...?”

“Hm? Oh.  _ W.  _ My first initial.” Sherlock explained, if poorly. “I started going by  _ Sherlock _ in university.” He shuddered. “Being called  _ Willy _ didn't sit right.”

“Aha.” John nodded. He could imagine. Once or twice he'd been called a  _ Johnson _ . Each time had stung quite badly. 

Sherlock crouched down, unbothered by the fact that his coat was dragging through the brambles. He'd be _ furious _ when it had to be dry cleaned. With two hands, he scooped armful upon armful of amber and brown leaves out from under the tangle of roots. “I used to sit here,” he grunted, leaning down and scraping out the back, half of his body pressed into the crevice, “back in primary. Mycroft is shit at finding moving targets.” He backed out, dusting off his sleeves. “And has always hated getting dirty. Not only could he not find me, he didn't necessarily _ want _ to.”

John plucked dried detritus from the detective's curly hair. “So you dug a burrow.”

Sherlock smiled at him. “I  _ found _ a burrow.” He corrected snidely, standing up and slapping the dirt from his hands. “I built good portions of my Mind Palace in there. When I wasn’t in school, studying with Mummy and Mycroft, or playing violin, I was in there.” 

“Most kids ride bikes.” John commented. 

“I don't think it should surprise you that I was an odd child.”

They stood perfectly still, staring into the catalyst of Sherlock's character intently. No words passed for several minutes. 

John tried to picture it; a little skinny boy curled up under a tree, dragging leaves towards the entrance to hide from passersby, holding his breath when a pursuer got too close. On second thought, it probably wasn't much different than when he hid in kitchen cabinets. No small time murderer would look in the cabinet for a justice-craving lunatic. 

“Looks cramped. Didn't seem to stunt your growth at all though. Probably just grew around it.”

“Like a watermelon.” Sherlock agreed.

“You _ are _ watermelon shaped.” John rolled his eyes. 

Sherlock chuckled. “I wonder if the carvings are still there.” 

“Crawl in.” John suggested, getting a lean against his side. 

“You just want to see me halfway stuck under a tree.” Accused the taller man, smiling when John shoved him back. 

John slowly sank to his knees. “Fine, I'll look.” He decided, pressing himself underneath and rolling onto his back. There was about a half a foot of space between his nose and the arched dirt ceiling. His feet stuck out, though if he were child-sized, he'd fit rather nicely in the hollow. 

“Mummy was wrong.” Sherlock told him from outside. “Your jumper is just unflattering.”

“Guess which finger I'm holding up.” John called back. The acoustics were muted. Despite the cold fingers of wind against the back of his neck, it was rather snug. 

The light from the doorway was blocked and another body shoved through, plopping down beside him. “None of them.” Sherlock replied with a short sigh. 

“You said there were carvings?”

Sherlock took a small tendril between his fingers and frowned. “Rabbits must have eaten them.” He supposed. “I distantly remember Mummy going on about a rabbit problem in the neighbourhood a few years ago.”

“Nevermind. This is a nice spot, anyhow.” John shifted more comfortably, easing the pressure off of his bum shoulder. 

Sherlock nodded. “It's peaceful.” He stretched as best he could in the confined space. “Thinking was easy in here.”

“Meditation.”

“Yes. I was a solitary boy. Didn't get on well with other children, much less adults. If you can believe, I abhorred authority figures.”

John smirked. “You're pulling my leg.”

“I wasn't bullied for it until secondary. My hypothesis is that I was born with some sort of autism: Asperger’s, maybe.” Sherlock nodded assertively. “But at the time I was considered  _ weird. _ I  _ felt _ weird. This is where I came when things became too difficult.”

Frowning, John patted his hand, withholding his surprised jolt when Sherlock's fingers trapped his. “Kid John would've kicked their arses.” He swore, smiling when Sherlock snickered. “I'm serious.”

“I know.” Sherlock replied smoothly. “It feels...  _ good _ to hear you say it.”

“Someone has to be nice to you once in a while.” John declared. 

“I'm glad it's you.”

“Me too.” John shifted, slightly. “Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“No one knows where this is?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.”

John sighed, going limp. “We're going to die here.”


End file.
